Dogs love a bath. Actually, they just love water, the big, muddy, splashy kind that’s full of dark black mud or red clay. It’s engrained in their psyche that they are supposed to jump into every puddle or body of water that should appear before their eyes, ignoring the master that’s yelling “No Spike! No!” Deaf ears. Just like a kid. It’s fairly certain that some high-tech doggie psychologist would say there is a personal disorder due to bad training but that’s not how we do it in the south. Besides, around here, people like to play in the mud, too!
Hershey likes the muddy water, especially when he’s chasing something or someone at full speed and there’s no stopping or stepping around the splashy thingy. Let me explain about my man, Hershey. He’s short, about 10 inches tall, weighing in at 10 lbs. Short, sleek, shiny fur. A Chihuahua, the color of milk chocolate (see how he got his name?) and just as sweet as the candy bar. Good dog, friendly dog, definitely a woman’s best friend. He’ll raise his shackles very quick if he ever senses danger in the area. Amazing sometimes what he considers danger.
The lot where I live is relatively level, with it higher in the front and gently sloping down going along towards the back of the property by gentle degrees. It’s full of heavy, sandy dirt, hard to carry and sticks to you good. Between the back property and the neighbor’s is a ditch, about two feet across, that drains in the nearby creek. This ditch is considered water access to both properties, which makes no sense at all because you can’t even float a canoe down it. But that’s another tale.
Hershey and Jack, his long-haired, black and white speckled buddy, love to play in the mud. Of course, anywhere Jack walks gets stuff stuck on him. Hershey, not so much. Unless they head to the back, to the mud, that heavy, sticky mud. (By the sound of that severe thunderstorm outside right now, I’d say there will more than enough mud for those guys to play in tomorrow). Jack, poor fella, always looks like he’s having a bad hair day when he’s partly wet, sort of like putting gel in your hair when it’s wet and then it dries. Jack. Exactly. Hershey? It doesn’t stick to him like that. I don’t know if his hair is fine or it’s just not designed to hold all that mud but he’s not really bad. Until you get him. It’s in his fur, stuck on his skin, no way to brush it out. Yuck! And he’s spoiled. He curls up near my feet at night. Not with that mess, though! Bath time.
The little camper shower has a hand-held sprayer to get in those tough to reach places, just in case you needed it, and he needed it. No, he doesn’t like a bath. He KNOWS when he’s getting one and it’s fight tooth and nail to drag him to the shower. And this is a little 10 lb dog! As luck would have it, this was his first shower in THIS shower and he was not prepared to give me another run for the money because he just didn’t see it coming.
I scooped the little unsuspecting soul up, plopped him down on the shower floor and jumped in with him to try and head him off from jumping back out the door. Ha! Dummy me, I got blasted with water right to start with because I sprayed me! This weren’t going exactly as planned. It seemed as if karma was taking a bite at me right then. Preserverence, however, is key to anything. Besides, I was already wet so now it’s time to wet him and get even. I soaked him good, sprayed and sprayed, lathered and rubbed, rinsed, lathered and rubbed some more. That dog! He’s so little and slick with suds that he could scoot by me and try to get his tiny rear-end out the door while he could. He couldn’t because I landed on my butt each and every time he tried, blocking his escape and giving my poor tailbone a workout. But we did it, finished and water finally began to run clear coming off of him.
Now comes the fun part, getting him out and somehow dry in about 3.4 seconds. For real. Scooped him up in the towel so he’d be locked in while I rubbed the water off. No, it was not pretty and he told me so. But I finally had to put him down so I could get to his soaking wet legs. Not gonna happen. Not this time, or any other time for that matter. As soon as those wet feet his the floor, he was gone, as fast as lightning. Gone. Just sit back and watch the show. Running, shaking, shivering. Put his ear to the ground, with his butt in the air, and run around like he’s lost all home training, running on his ear! Then the other side. Back and forth and back and forth. For certain a night of Metallica couldn’t be more interesting than what I was witnessing!
Hershey and I have been together almost six years. He’s never changed his routine at any time concerning his bath. Nor have I. He doesn’t get them every day but the show he provides afterwards is worth any tailbone injury or wet clothes or suds or mud. So blessed to have a doggie that despises a bath. Too much entertainment!